


Last

by Paopu



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, game of thrones
Genre: F/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-22 14:11:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/914139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paopu/pseuds/Paopu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A drabble based on a prompt by irontarus to my Arya roleplay blog. Posting here for reference.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Last

**Author's Note:**

> A drabble based on a prompt by irontarus to my Arya roleplay blog. Posting here for reference.

The screams of the dead and dying were lost on Arya; the smell of burning bodies, buildings and the rust of blood did not seem to reach her nose. She was a mere foot soldier in the force of the Brotherhood – a talented weapon whose use could not be refused, even with her standing as a Lady. “You need me!” She remembered yelling at them, that fierce expression evident on face as she argued with both the men and Gendry alike. Oh how he infuriated her, saying that the m’lady should not fight and agreeing with all who told her to stay behind. Arya snapped back as she was sure he expected – as she was sure all expected – and only when it became apparent she would go even if she had to take them down to do it, they had reluctantly agreed. They donned her in armour, and she took her sword, and they marched with pride to the Lannister army…

…like lambs to the slaughter.

“You’re a stupid, stupid, bull-headed, blacksmith bastard! Don’t you do this to me – don’t you dare do this to me!”Her hands were upon his shoulders, shaking his bulky form as he lay in the bloodied mud and kicked up grass. Wedged into his armour was a sword that protruded from his belly, oozing blood to mix with the already swollen earth. His face held an expression of almost whimsical horror; the face of a man who didn’t fear death, only when it was upon him. Why should he? He was young and he was talented – brutal and efficient in both of his crafts – and death was something that happened to everyone else. Not him.

“M-M’lady should not speak such words. That’s n-not very nice.” He stuttered, an attempt in play that only caused Arya to let out a strained sob. His words caused a trickle of blood to ooze from the corner of his mouth, sliding through his beard like a snail over a plant, and as Arya attempted to wipe it away it only smeared across his face and over her hands.

‘You can’t save him.’ The brutal thought pierced her mind like the sword in Gendry, cold as steel and as just as sharp. ‘Just like how you couldn’t save your father, Robb or your mother. You can’t save anyone.’

“Don’t leave me,” she begged, her words coming out in a pathetic squeak, as if such words could make magic. As if by crying, the Lord of Light, the God of Death or the Seven could gift him back to her. But life wasn’t a song sung by bards and drunken men in summer - life was cruel like the choking hands of winter that snuffed out the lights and fires that burned in men’s hearts. Just like now.

“Arya,”his hand reached up to touch her cheek, shaking from the motion. She caught it in both of her own, marvelling at the roughness that once held such strength and gentleness. Now it was wiped from him – a shadow of what it once was. “I’ll… I-I’ll see you soon.”

“N-No. NO!” Arya shrieked, and the last speck of energy held within him faded away as his hand was then only held up by her own.

He was gone.


End file.
